Beg 1 ed 2013 1484888650

Beg
by
CD Reiss
Los Angeles Nights – Book One

Copyright © 2013
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or
other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to places, or persons living or dead is purely
coincidental
.
Cover Art designed by the author
“I’ve Got You Under My Skin” Lyrics by Cole Porter

CHAPTER 1.
At the height of singing the last note, when my lungs were still full and I was switching from
pure physical power to emotional thrust, I was blindsided by last night’s dream. Like most dreams, it
hadn’t had a story. I was on top of a grand piano on the rooftop bar of Hotel K. The fact that the real
hotel didn’t have a piano on the roof notwithstanding, I was on it and naked from the waist down,
propped on my elbows. My knees were spread farther apart than physically possible. Customers
drank their thirty-dollar drinks and watched as I sang. The song didn’t have words, but I knew them
well, and as the strange man with his head between my legs licked me, I sang harder and harder until I
woke up with an arched back and soaked sheets, hanging on to a middle C for dear life.
Same as the last note of our last song, and I held it like a stranger was pleasuring me on a
nonexistent piano. I drew that last note out for everything it was worth, pulling from deep inside my
diaphragm, feeling the song rattle the bones of my rib cage, sweat pouring down my face. It was my
note. The dream told me so. Even after Harry stopped strumming and Gabby’s keyboard softened to
silence, I croaked out the last tearful strain as if gripping the edge of a precipice.
When I opened my eyes in the dark club, I knew I had them; every one of them stared at me as if
I had just ripped out their souls, put them in envelopes, and sent them back to their mothers, COD.

Even in the few silent seconds after I stopped, when most singers would worry that they’d lost the
audience, I knew I hadn’t; they just needed permission to applaud. When I smiled, permission was
granted, and they clapped all right.
Our band, Spoken Not Stirred, had brought down the Thelonius Room. A year of writing and


rehearsing the songs and a month getting bodies in the door was paying off right here, right now.
The crowd. That was what it was all about. That was why I busted my ass. That was why I had
shut out everything in my life but putting a roof over my head and food in my mouth. I didn’t want
anything from them but that ovation.
I bowed and went off stage, followed by the band. Harry bolted to the bathroom to throw up, as
always. I could still hear the applause and banging feet. The room held a hundred people, and the
audience sounded like a thousand. I wanted to take the moment to bathe in something other than the
disappointment and failure that accompanied a career in music, but I heard Gabrielle next to me,
tapping her right thumb and middle finger. Her gaze was blank, settled in a corner, her eyes as big as
teacups. I followed that gaze to exactly nothing. The corner was empty, but she stared as if a mirror
into herself stood there, and she didn’t like what she saw.
I glanced at Darren, our drummer. He stared back at me, then at his sister, who had tapped those
fingers since puberty.
“Gabby,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
Darren poked her bicep. “Gabs? Shit together?”
“Fuck off, Darren,” Gabby said flatly, not looking away from the empty corner.
Darren and I looked at each other. We were each other’s first loves, back in L.A. Performing
Arts High, and even after the soft, simple breakup, we had deepened our friendship to the point we
didn’t need to talk with words.
We said to each other, with our expressions, that Gabby was in trouble again.
“We rule!” Harry gave a fist pump as he exited the bathroom, still buttoning up his pants. “You
were awesome.” He punched me in the arm, oblivious to what was going on with Gabby. “My heart
broke a little at ‘Split Me.’”

“Thanks,” I said without emotion. I did feel gratitude, but we had other concerns at the moment.
“Where’s Vinny?”
Our manager, Vinny Mardigian, appeared as if summoned, all glad-handing and smiles. Such a
dick. I really couldn’t stand him, but he’d seemed confident and competent when we met.
“You happy?” I said. “We sold all our tickets at full price. Now maybe next time we won’t
have to pay to play?”
“Hello, Monica Sexybitch.” That was his pet name for me. The guy had the personality of a
landfill and the drive of a shark in bloody waters. “Nice to see you too. I got Performer’s Agency on
the line. Their guy’s right outside.”
Great. I needed representation from the The Rinkydink Agency like I needed a hole in the head.
But I was an artist, and I was supposed to take whatever the industry handed me with a smile and
spread legs.
Vinny, of course, couldn’t shut up worth a damn. He was high on Performer’s Agency and the
worldwide fame he thought they would get us. He didn’t realize half a step forward was just as good
as a full step back. “You got a crowd out there asking for an encore. Everybody here does their job,
then everybody’s happy.”
I listened, and sure enough, they were still clapping, and Gabby was still staring into the corner.
“Let them beg,” I said.


***
Darren took Gabby home after the encore, which she played like the crazy prodigy she was,
then she blanked out again. Her depression was ameliorated by music and brought on by just about
anything, even if she was taking her meds.
She’d attempted suicide two years before after a few weeks of corner-staring and complaining
of not being able to feel anything about anything. I’d been the one to find her in the kitchen, bleeding
into the sink. That had been terrific for everyone. She took my second bedroom, and Darren moved
from a roommate-infested guest house in West Hollywood to a studio a block away. We played music
together because music was what we did, and because it kept Gabby sane, Darren close, and me from
screwing up. But it didn’t even keep us in hot dogs. We all worked, and until I got my current gig at

the rooftop bar at Hotel K, I had to give up Starbucks because I couldn’t rub two nickels together to
make heat.
Because Spoken Not Stirred had drawn more people than the cost of our guaranteed tickets,
we’d made three hundred dollars that night. Fifteen percent went to Vinny Landfillian. Sixty-eight
dollars paid for Harry’s parking ticket because he figured if he was loading his bass and amp, he
could park in a loading zone on the Sunset Strip before six o’clock. We split the rest four ways.
Hotel K was a spanking new modernist, thirty-story diamond in a one-story stucco shitpile of a
neighborhood. The rooftop bar thing in L.A. had gotten out of hand. You couldn’t swing a dead talent
agent without hitting some new construction with a barside pool on the roof and thumping music day
and night. The upside of the epidemic was that waitress service was the norm, and tall, skinny girls
who could slip between name-dropping drunks while holding heavy trays over their heads without
clocking anyone were an absolute necessity. The downside for someone tall and skinny like myself
was my replaceability. You couldn’t swing a tall, skinny girl in L.A. without hitting another one.
Darren and I had taken too long discussing who would watch Gabby. He convinced her to stay
at his place for the night, though “convinced” might not be the word to use when talking about
someone who didn’t care about where she slept, or anything, one way or the other.
I ran from the elevator to the hotel locker room, the fifty bucks I’d made for holding a hundred
people in my palm light in my pocket. I peeled off my jacket and stuffed it in my locker, then pulled
my shirt off. I didn’t have a second to spare before Yvonne, who I was relieving, started chewing me
out for stranding her on the floor. I yanked a low-cut dress that showed more leg than modesty out of
my bag and wrestled into it.
“You’re late,” Freddie, my manager, said. He stank of cigarettes, which I found disgusting.
“I’m sorry, I had a gig.” I kicked off my shoes and pulled my pants off from under my dress. I
had no time to worry about what Freddie thought of me.
“Bully for you.” Freddie crossed his arms, scrunching his brown pinstripe suit. He had a mole
on his cheek and wore a puckered expression even when he looked down my shirt, which was almost
every time we talked.
I didn’t wait to argue. I slipped back into my shoes, slapped my locker shut, and ran toward the
floor.
“Yvonne!” I caught her in the back hall as she folded a wad of tips into her pocket.

“Monica, girl! Where were you?”
“I’m sorry. Thanks for covering my tables. Can I make it up to you?”


“I don’t get home in time, you can pay the sitter an extra hour.”
“No problem,” I said, though it was a big problem.
“Jonathan Drazen is at your table.” She put her hand to her heart. “He’s hot, and he’ll tip if he
likes what he sees. So be nice.” She handed me the tickets for my station.
Drazen was my boss’s boss. He owned the hotel, but we’d never crossed paths. Apparently, he
traveled a lot, and he spent little or no time on the roof when he was in town, so our paths hadn’t
crossed. This development was more annoying than anything. I’d just gotten the ovation of my life at
a really cool club and was bathing in the warm validation. I didn’t need to prove myself all over
again, and based on what? If it wasn’t my music, I didn’t care.
The place was packed: wall-to-wall Eurotrash, Hollywood heavyweights, and assorted
hangers-on. The pool was a big rectangle in the center of the expanse. Red chairs surrounded it, and a
large cocktail area with tables and chairs sat off to the side. Little tents with couches inside outlined
most of the roof, and when the curtains closed, you left them closed unless someone looked as though
they’d taken off without paying.
I stood at the service bar, flipping through my tickets. Five tables, two with little star punchouts in the upper right hand corners. Put there by Freddie, they meant someone important was at the
table. Extra care was required.
My first tray was a star punch-out. I put on a smile and navigated through the crowd to deliver
the tray to a table in the corner. Four men and I knew Drazen right away. He had red hair cut just
below the ears, disheveled in that absolutely precise way. He wore jeans and a grey shirt that showed
off his broad shoulders and hard biceps. His full lips stretched across flawless, natural teeth when he
saw his tray coming, and I was caught a little off guard by how much I couldn’t stop looking at him.
“H-Hi,” I stammered. “I’ll be your server.” I smiled. That always worked. Then I thought happy
thoughts because that made my smile genuine, and I watched Drazen move his gaze from my smiling
face, over my breasts, to my hips, stopping at my calves. I felt as if I were being applauded again.
He looked back at my face. I stared right back at him, and he pursed his lips. I’d caught him
looking, and he seemed justifiably embarrassed.

“Hello,” he said. “You’re new.” His voice resonated like a cello, even over the music.
I checked Yvonne’s notes and picked up a short glass with ice and amber liquid from the tray.
“You have the Jameson’s?”
“Thank you.” He nodded to me, keeping his eyes on my face and off my body. Even then, I felt
as if I were being eaten alive, sucked to fluid, mouthful by mouthful. A liquid feeling came over me,
and I stopped doing my job for half a second while I allowed myself to be completely saturated by
that warm feeling. In that moment, of course, someone, a man judging from the weight of impact,
pushed or got pushed, and my tray went flying.
For a second, the glasses hung in the air like a handful of glitter, and I thought I could catch
them. I felt the sound of the impact too long after three gin and tonics and a Jameson on the rocks
splashed over each guest. I was shocked into silence as everyone at the table stood, hands out,
dripping, clothes getting darker at crotches and chests. A collective gasp rose from everyone within
splash distance.
Freddie appeared like a zombie smelling fresh brains. “You’re fired.” He turned to Drazen and
said, “Sir, can I get you anything? We have shirts—”
Drazen shook a splash of liquid off his hand. “It’s fine.”


“I am so sorry,” I said.
Freddie got between me and my former boss, as if I would beg him for my job back, which I’d
never do, and said, “Get your things.”

CHAPTER 2.
Fuck it. Fuck that job and everything else. I’d get another one. I promised myself, I was going to
make it big, and when I did, I would come in here with my freaking entourage and Freddie was going
to serve me whatever I wanted for no tip at all. Not even a cent. And Jonathan Drazen was going to sit
by me and look at me just like he did before I spilled gin and tonic all over him, but like I’m an equal,
not some little piece of candy working for tips.
I slammed my locker shut.
I had to find another job soon. I always paid my housing expenses first, but we owed the studio

money, and I couldn’t take another dime from Harry.
Freddie strode down the dim hallway, toes pointed out and walking like a duck on a mission.
“Fuck off, Freddie. I’m leaving, and by the way, you’re an—”
“Mister Drazen wants to see you.”
“Fuck him. He can’t summon me. I don’t work for him anymore.”
Freddie smiled like a sly cat. “Sometimes he gives the short timers a severance if he feels bad.
Nice chunka change. After that, you can get the hell out if you don’t want to sleep with him. I’d like to
see him not get laid for once.”
He took a step closer. I didn’t know why he’d get close enough to touch me, so I didn’t back
away, and when he slapped my ass, I was so stunned I didn’t move. He ended the slap with a pinch.
“What did you…?”
But he was already waddling off, elbows bent, as if someone else’s life needed to be miserable
and he was just the guy to make it so. I stood there with my mouth open, seventy percent mad at him
for being a complete molester and thirty percent mad at myself for being too shocked to punch him in
the face.
***
I had pride. I had so much pride that heeling at Jonathan Drazen’s beck and call for a “chunka
change” was the most humiliating thing I could think of doing. But there I was, in front of his ajar door
on the thirtieth floor, knocking, not because I needed the money (which I did), and not because I
wanted him to look at me like that again (which I also did), but because I couldn’t have been the first
waitress ass-slapped, or worse, by Freddie. If Drazen wasn’t aware of Freddie’s douchebaggery, he
needed to be.
The office looked onto the Hollywood Hills, which must have been stunning in daylight. At
night, the neighborhood was just a splash of twinkling lights on a black canvas. He stood behind his
desk, back to the window, the room’s soft lighting a flattering glaze on the perfect skin of his
forearms. He wore a fresh pair of jeans and a white shirt. The dark wood and frosted glass
accentuated the fact his office was meant to be a comforting space, and even though I knew the setting
was manipulating me, I relaxed.

“Come on in,” he said.
I stepped onto the carpet, its softness easing the pain caused by my high heels.
“I’m sorry I spilled on you. I’ll pay for dry cleaning, if you want.”
“I don’t want. Sit down.” His green eyes flickered in the lamplight. I had to admit he was
stunning. His copper hair curled at the edges, and his smile could light a thousand cities. He couldn’t
have been older than his early thirties.
“I’ll stand,” I said. I was wearing a short skirt, and judging from the way he’d looked at me on
the roof, if I sat down, I’d receive another stare that would make me want to jump him.
“I want to apologize for Freddie,” he said. “He’s a little more aggressive than he should be.”
“We need to talk about that,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow and came around to the front of the desk. He wore some cologne that
stole the scent of sage leaves on a foggy day: dry, dusty, and clean. He leaned on his desk, putting his
hands behind him, and I could see the whole length of his body: broad shoulders, tight waist, and
straight hips. He looked at me again, then down to the floor. I felt as if he’d moved his hands off of
me, and at once I was thrilled and ashamed. I wasn’t going to be intimidated or scared. I wasn’t going
to let him look away from me. If he wanted to stare, he should stare. I placed my hands on my hips
and let my body language challenge him to put his eyes where they wanted to go, not the floor.
Because, fuck him.
“Freddie’s a douchebag.” I could tell from his expression that was the wrong way to start. I
needed to keep opinions and juicy expressions to myself and state facts. “He said you’re going to try
and sleep with me, for one.” He smiled as if he really was going to try to sleep with me and got
caught.
“Then,” I continued, because I wanted to wipe that smile off his gorgeous face, “he grabbed my
ass.”
The smile melted as though it was an ice cube in a hot frying pan. He took his hungry eyes off
mine, a relief on one hand and a disappointment on the other. “I was going to offer you severance.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Let me finish.”
I nodded, a sting of prickly heat spreading across my cheeks.
“The severance was in case you didn’t want to continue working here,” he said. “Even though I

can’t stand the smell of the gin you got on me, I don’t think you should lose your job over it. But now
that you told me that, what should I do? If I give you severance, it looks like I’m paying you off. And
if I unfire you, it looks like I’m letting you stay because I’m afraid of getting sued.”
“I get it,” I said. “If he said you’d try to sleep with me, then you’ve got your own shit to hide,
and nothing would bring it out better than a lawsuit.” I waited a second to see if I could glean anything
from his eyes, but he had his business face on, so I put on my sarcasm face. “Quite a terrible position
you’re in.”
His nod told me he understood me. His position was privileged. He got to make choices about
my life based on his convenience. “What do you do, Monica?”
“I’m a waitress.”
He smirked, looking at me full on, and I wanted to drop right there. “That’s your circumstance.
It’s not who you are. Law school, maybe?”
“Like hell.”


“Teacher, woodworker, volleyball player?” He ran the words together quickly, and I guessed
he could come up with another hundred potential professions before he got it right.
“I’m a musician,” I said.
“I’d like to see you play sometime.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you.”
“Indeed.” He walked behind his desk. “I assume no one witnessed this alleged ass-grab?”
“Correct.”
He opened a drawer and flipped through some files. “I hired Freddie, and he’s my
responsibility to manage. Your responsibility is to report it to someone besides me.” He handed me a
slip of paper. It was a standard U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission flyer. “The numbers
are on there. File a report. Send me a copy, please. It would protect both of us.”
I stared at the paper. Drazen could get into a lot of trouble if enough reports were filed. I
intended to tell the authorities what happened because I couldn’t stand Freddie, but I felt a little
sheepish about getting Drazen cited or investigated.
“You’re not an asshole,” I said.

He bowed his head, and though I couldn’t see his face, I imagined he was smiling. He took a
card from his pocket and came back around the desk. “My friend Sam owns the Stock downtown. I
think it’s a better fit for you. I’ll tell him you might call.”
When I took the card, I had an urge I couldn’t resist. I reached my hand a little farther than I
should have and brushed my finger against his. A shot of pleasure drove through me, and his finger
flicked to extend the touch.
I had to get away from that guy as fast as possible.

CHAPTER 3.
Los Angeles weather in late September was mid-July weather everywhere else—dog’s-mouth
hot, sweat-through-your-antiperspirant hot, car-exhaust hot. Gabby seemed better than the previous
night, but Darren and I were on our toes.
Gabby said she was going for a walk and, trying to make sure she wasn’t alone, I suggested she
and I get ice cream at the artisanal place on Sunset.
We sat on the outside patio so the noise would mask our conversation. I poked at my strawberry
basil ice cream while she considered her wasabi/honey longer than she might have a week ago.
“It’s good money,” she said, trying to talk me into a Thursday night lounge job. “And no pay to
play. Just cash and go home.”
“I hate those gigs. I hate being background.”
“Two hundred dollars? Come on, Monica. You don’t have to learn any songs; one rehearsal,
maybe two, and we got it.”
Gabby had spent her childhood getting her fingers slapped with a ruler every time she made a
mistake on the piano. Her playing became so perfect she barely had to work at it. She was so
compulsive her every waking moment was spent eating, playing, or thinking about playing, so the
word “rehearse” couldn’t apply to her because it implied an artist taking time out of their day to get
something right, not a compulsive perfectionist basically breathing. She was a genius, and in all
likelihood, her genius plus her perfectionist nature drove her depression.


“I only want to sing my own songs,” I said.

“You can spin them. Just, come on. If I don’t bring a voice on, I’ll lose the gig, and I need it.”
That hitch in her voice meant she was swinging between desperation and emotional flatness, and it
terrified me. “Mon, I can’t wait for the next Spoken gig. I’m twenty-five, and I don’t have a lot of
time. We don’t have a lot of time. Every month goes by, and I’m nobody. God, I don’t even have an
agent. What will happen to me? I can’t take it. I think I’ll die if I end up like Frieda DuPree, trying her
whole life and then she’s in her sixties and still going to band auditions.”
“You’re not going to end up like Frieda DuPree.”
“I have to keep working. Every night that goes by without someone seeing me play is a lost
opportunity.”
Performance school rote bullshit. Get out and play. Keep working. Play the odds. Teachers told
poor kids they might be seen if they busted their violins on the streets if they had to. Dream-feeders.
Fuck them. Some of those kids should have gone into accounting, and that line of shit kept them
dreaming a few too many years.
I looked at Gabby and her big blue eyes, pleading for consideration. She was mid-anxiety
attack. If it continued over the coming weeks, the anxiety attacks would become less frequent and the
dead stares into corners more frequent if she didn’t take her meds regularly. Then it would be trouble:
another suicide attempt, or worse, a success. I loved Gabby. She was like a sister to me, but
sometimes I wished for a less burdensome friend.
“Fine,” I said. “One time, okay? You can find someone else in all of Los Angeles to do it next
time.”
Gabby nodded and tapped her thumb and middle finger together. “It’s good,” she said. “It’ll be
good, Monica. You’ll knock them out. You will.” The words had a rote quality, like she said them
just to fill space.
“I guess I need it too,” I said. “I got fired last night.”
“What did you do?”
“Spilled drinks in my boss’s lap.”
“That Freddie guy?”
“Jonathan Drazen.”
“Oh…” She put her hands to her mouth. “He also owns the R.O.Q. Club in Santa Monica. So
don’t try to work there, either.”

“Did you know he’s gorgeous?”
A voice came from behind me. “Talking about me again?” Darren had shown up, God bless
him.
“Jonathan Drazen fired her last night,” Gabby said.
“Who is that?” He sat down, placing his laptop on the table.
“He didn’t do it. Freddie did. Drazen just offered me a severance and referred me to the
Stock.”
“And apparently he’s gorgeous.” He raised an eyebrow at me. I shrugged. Darren and I were
over each other, but he’d rib me bloody at the slightest sign of weakness. “I haven’t heard you talk
like that about a guy in a year and a half. I thought maybe you were still in love with me.” I must have
blushed, or my eyes might have given away some hidden spark of feeling, because Darren snapped
open his laptop. “Let’s see what kinda wifi I can pick up.”


“I don’t talk like that about men because I prefer celibacy to bullshit.”
Darren tapped away on his laptop. “Jonathan Drazen. Thirty-two. Old man.” He looked at me
over the screen.
“Do not underestimate how hot he is. I could barely talk.”
“Earned his money the old-fashioned way.”
“Rich daddy?”
“A long line of them. He makes more in interest than the entire GDP of Burma.” Darren
scrolled through some web page or another. He loved the internet like most people loved puppies and
babies. “Real estate magnate. His dad was a drunk and lost a chunk of money. Our Jonathan the
Third….” He drifted off as he scrolled. “BA from Penn. MBA from Stanford. He brought the business
back. Bazillionaire. He’s a real catch if you can tear him away from the four hundred other women
he’s getting photographed with.”
“Lalala. Don’t care.”
“Why? It’s not like you’ve had sex in….what?” Darren clicked around, pretending he didn’t
care about my answer, but I knew he did.
“Men are bad news,” I said. “They’re a distraction. They make demands.”

“Not all men are Kevin.”
Kevin was my last boyfriend, the one whose control issues had turned me off to men for
eighteen months. “Lalala…not talking about Kevin either.” I scraped the bottom of my ice cream cup.
Darren turned his laptop so I could see the screen. “This him?”
Jonathan Drazen stood between a woman and man I didn’t recognize. I scrolled through the
gossip page. His Irish good looks were undeniable next to anyone, even movie stars.
“He has been photographed with an awful lot of women,” I said.
“Yeah, he’s been a total fuck-around since his divorce, FYI. If you wanted him, he’d probably
be game. All I’m saying.” He crossed his legs and looked out onto Sunset.
Gabby had a faraway look as she watched the cars. “His wife was Jessica Carnes,” Gabby
recited as if she was reading a newspaper in her head, “the artist. Drazen married her at his father’s
place on Venice Beach. She’s half-sister to Thomas Deacon, the sports agent at APR, who has a baby
with Susan Kincaid, the hostess at the Key Club, whose brother plays basketball with Eugene
Testarossa. Our dream agent at WDE.”
“One day, Gabster, your obsession with Hollywood interrelationships will pay off.” Darren
clicked his laptop closed. “But not today.”
***
I think one could be at Hotel K, get blindfolded, taken to the Stock, and believe they’d been
driven around and dropped in the same place they started: same pool, same chairs, same couches,
same music, and same assholes clutching the same drinks and passing off the same tips. What was
different was that there was no Freddie. the Stock had Debbie, a tall Asian lady who wore mandarin
collar embroidered shirts and black trousers. She knew every superstar from just their face, and they
loved her as much as she loved them. She could tell a movie mogul from an actress and sat them
where they’d have the most professional friction. She coordinated the waitresses’ tables according to
the patron’s taste and coddled the girls until they worked like a machine.


She was the nicest person I’d ever worked for.
“Smile, girl,” Debbie said. I’d been there a week and she knew exactly how many tables I
could handle, how fast I was compared to the others, and my strong suit, which appeared to be my

magnetic personality. “People look at you,” she said. “They can’t help it. Be smiling.”
It was hard to smile. We’d had three good shows in a row, then Vinny disappeared into thin air.
We’d banged on his office door in Thai Town, went to his house in East Hollywood, and called four
hundred times. No Vinny. Every gig he had lined up for us fell through. My momentum was slowing
and I didn’t like it.
“What’s your freaking problem?” said one dude as he threw a dollar bill and three dimes on my
tray. “You need a blast of coke or something?” He’d looked like every other spikey-haired, fakeblonde, Hugo Boss-wearing douchenozzle who namedropped from zero to sixty in three beers. But
Debbie had put his name on the ticket, probably as a favor to me. His name was Eugene Testarossa,
the one guy at WDE I’d wanted to meet for months. In my depression over stupid Vinny, I hadn’t
recognized him.
I stalked toward the bathroom on my break and bumped into a hard chest that smelled of sage
green and fog.
“Monica,” Jonathan said. “Hey. Sam told me he hired you.” His green eyes looked down at me
and I wanted to break apart under the weight of them. As he looked at me, his face went from amused
to concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Fine, just a bad day. Whatever.” I stepped toward the bathroom, but he seemed disinclined to
let me go so easily.
“I got your report. Thanks. It was very professional.”
“You assumed a waitress couldn’t put together a sentence?” His glance down told me I’d been
a bitch. He didn’t deserve my worst side. I tried to think fast; I didn’t want a barrage of questions
about my life right then. “The Dodgers lost and I’m from Echo Park and all, so I got a little down.”
“The Dodgers won tonight.” His pressed lips and bemused eyes told me he understood I was
half joking.
I shuffled my feet, feeling like a kid caught lying about kissing behind the gym. “Yeah. Fucking
Jesus Renaldo pulling it out in the ninth like that.”
“He’s got five good pitches in him per game.”
“He tends to throw them in the bullpen.”
“Or trying to pick a guy off.” He shook his head. He looked normal just then, not like the guy
behind the desk undressing me with his eyes.
“I’m sorry I was such a bitch, just now.”

“I’m used to it.”
“No, you’re not. Come on. People are nice to you all day.”
He shrugged. “You lied about why you were upset. I get to lie about how people treat me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “I have season tickets on the first base line.”
I felt my eyes light up a little, and getting so excited over something someone else had
embarrassed me.
“I could bring you sometime,” he said.
“You haven’t seen a Dodger game until you’ve seen it from the bleachers. Six dolla seats, yo.”


He laughed, and I laughed too. Then Debbie showed up at the end of the hall.
“Monica!” she called out, tapping her wrist.
“Shit!” I cried out and ran back to my station, turning to give Jonathan a wave before rounding
the corner.
I put on a smile and made myself as intensely personable as I could. I saw Jonathan at the head
of the bar, talking to Sam and Debbie, laughing at some joke I couldn’t hear. When I went to the
station to pick up my tray, he looked at me and I felt his sight. He was gorgeous, no doubt. I could
write songs about that face, those cheekbones, those eyes, that dry scent.
I wished he’d go away. I tried not to look at him, but he and Sam were still talking at one in the
morning. Debbie stood at the end of the service bar, counting receipts, when I came by with a ticket,
and I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’m sorry I was talking to Mister Drazen in the hall,” I said. “I used to work for him.”
“I know.”
“How often does he come around here?”
“He and Sam have been close since they went to Stanford together, so…once a week? Should I
arrange for him to be here more often?”
My cheeks got hot. To Debbie, who read people like neon street signs, the blushing was visible
even in the dim lights. I glanced at him across the bar. He was looking at Debbie and me. He lifted his
rocks glass, a bunch of melting ice in the bottom. Sam had gone to take care of some late-night hotel

business and Jonathan was alone.
“Perfect,” Debbie said to me. “You will bring him his refill.” She hailed the bartender, a buffed
out model who worked his body more than his mind. “Robert, give Mister Drazen’s drink to Monica.”
“Debbie, really,” I said.
“Why?” asked Robert, pouring a glass of single malt from a shelf so high I would have needed
a cherry picker to reach it. “I’m not pretty enough?”
“You’re plenty pretty,” Debbie said. “Now do it.” She put her hand on my forearm and spoke
quietly. “You need more practice dealing with his social class. For you, as a person. Getting used to
it will only benefit you. Now go.”
Being mothered was nice, I guess. My mother had been more or less absent since I went to high
school, which was about when she and dad moved to Castaic. I never felt abandoned, but I could
have used a hand with the day to day bullshit.
Drazen watched me come around the bar with his scotch. I wondered if he knew that made me
uncomfortable or if he even gave it a thought. I wondered if the difference in our relative positions
bothered him or turned him on. He was a bazillionaire and customer. I was a waitress with two
nickels making heat. This had to be a turn on.
“Thanks,” he said when I placed the napkin and drink on the bar, a job Robert could have done
in half the time.
“You’re welcome.”
We looked at each other for a second or ten. I had nothing to add to the conversation, but his
magnetic pull made words irrelevant. I was stepping away to leave when he said, “I meant it, about
seeing a game.”
“I meant it about the bleachers.”
“I like to get to know someone before they drag me out past centerfield.” He clinked his ice


against the sides of his glass. “The company has to be pretty engaging that far from the plate.”
I wanted to mention the stunning color of his eyes. I wanted to touch his hand as it rested on the
edges of the bar. Instead I said, “Your fellow fans keep you on your toes, especially if you wear red.”
“Can I see you after work?”

The clattering noise in my chest must have been audible. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been asked out
or the object of a proposition in the last year and a half; all of the men who wanted me were simply
too easy to politely reject. If I had a brain in my head, I would reject Jonathan Drazen right out of
hand. Politely.
“Maybe,” I said. “Company’s got to be pretty engaging at two thirty in the morning.”
Sam showed up, and since I didn’t want to be seen talking up my ex-boss, I walked away
without confirming that he’d feel engaging at that ungodly hour.

CHAPTER 4.
I spent the next hour and a half talking myself out of meeting with Jonathan after work, if he
even showed. He was going to be a distraction, I could tell. I couldn’t be in the same room with him
without feeling like I needed to touch him.
I thought about Kevin. A fine specimen of a man, he’d had much the same effect on me as
Jonathan Drazen, complete with fluttery stomach and tingling cheeks.
I’d been with Darren over six years when he admitted to kissing Dana Fasano. We were in the
process of either breaking up or getting married. I went to a party downtown with a friend whose
name eluded me right then, and there he was. Kevin was talking to some girl in the corner, and when
he glanced over her head, his eyes found mine like he was looking for them. I froze in place. He had
brown eyes and thick black lashes, and when we saw each other, the distance between us became a
plucked cello string, vibrating, making a beautiful sound.
I didn’t see him again for another half an hour, yet I had felt him circling me, tethered, even
when we talked to different people. Finally, in the crowded kitchen, he was behind me, and I knew it
because I could feel him before I even saw him reach over me to slide a beer from the sink.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
He held the beer bottle toward me, his hands slick on the glass, cold water pooling in the
crevice between his skin and the bottle. “Is the opener over there?”
I took the bottle from him, overreaching, as I’d done with Drazen, so I could touch his cool, wet
hand. Then I put the bottle cap on the metal edge of the counter and pulled down swiftly. The cap bent
and popped off, clinking to the floor. I held up the bottle for him. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” He considered the bottle, then me. “See that girl over there?” He pointed at a girl
about my age with short, dark hair and striped leggings.
“Yeah.”
“In twenty seconds, she’s going to come over here and ask what I’m working on for my show. I
don’t want to tell her.”
“So don’t.”
As if on cue, the girl saw Kevin and walked over. It was the first time I experienced him as a
charmed person, and it would not be the last.


“It would be better if she didn’t ask. My paintings are secret before a show. If I tell her, she’ll
own them. Her soul will own them. I can’t explain it.” The kitchen was crowded, slowing the striped
leggings’ progress and pushing us together, forcing us to whisper.
“I get it,” I said. I would have gotten anything he said at that point. I would have claimed to
understand quantum mechanics if he explained it to me. “They aren’t born yet,” I continued. “If she
sees them while they’re being made, she knows them as children. Their insides.”
“My God, you get me.”
I had no snappy reply. I wanted to get him. I wanted to get everything he said from now on. He
touched my chin. “If I kiss you, she’ll turn around and go away.”
In retrospect, that was the lamest come on imaginable from him. He’d done much better in the
year following. But at the party, the word “kiss” breathed from his beautiful lips, was all I needed. I
put my hand on his shoulder, and he slipped one around my waist. Our lips met, and I held back a
groan of pleasure. I’d only ever been with Darren, and I loved him. I would always love him, but
kissing that man, like that, with his taste of malt and chocolate, uncovered physical sensations I didn’t
know could come from a kiss. I felt every pore of his tongue, every turn of his lips. The world shut off
and my identity became a glow of sexual desire.
I went home barely able to walk from wanting him and completed my breakup with Darren the
next day. If desire was supposed to feel like that, I needed more of it. I felt awake, alive, not just
sexy, but sexual. Thoughts of him infected me until I saw him again and we tumbled into bed,
screwing like wild animals.

A year later, when I walked away from him, weeping, I realized I’d let my sexuality control and
manipulate me through him. He took my music and crushed it under the weight of his own talent. He
ignored what I created, dismissing it, degenerating it, so that within three months, I couldn’t sing a
word and any instrument I picked up became a bludgeon. I’d never felt so creatively dead and so
sexually alive.
When I got the strength to walk away from him, I vowed never again.
***
I snapped my locker closed, thinking about those Dodger seats on the first base line. A
corporation gets a skybox. A real fan gets tickets at field level, luxuries be damned. I’d never seen a
game from that angle.
Debbie came into the locker room, buzzing with talk and flirting and locker doors banging, and
handed out our tip envelopes. “A good night for everyone,” she said, then got close to me. “Someone
is waiting for you at the front exit. If you want to avoid him, go through the parking lot, but be nice.
He’s a friend of the hotel.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Quickly, I have to count out.”
“How many drinks did he have?” I asked as quietly as I could.
Debbie smiled as if I’d asked the exact right question. “Two. He nurses like a baby.”
“I know you don’t know me that well yet, but… would going out the front be a mistake?”
“Only if you take it too seriously.”
“Thanks.”


Debbie walked off to hand out the rest of the envelopes. What she said had been a relief,
actually. It made the boundaries that much clearer. I could hang out, be close to him and feel the buzz
of sex between us, but I had to be careful about climbing into bed with him. Fair warning.
***
Jonathan Drazen stood in the lobby, talking to Sam, laughing like an old buddy. I wasn’t going
to approach him with my boss right there. Sam seemed like a fine guy for the fifteen minutes we’d
talked. With his white hair and slim build, he looked like a newscaster and had an all-business

attitude. I just pushed through the revolving doors, figuring fate had lent a hand in deciding whether or
not I’d see Drazen outside a rooftop bar.
I was three steps into the hot night when I heard him call my name.
“You stalking me?” I asked, slowing my steps to the parking lot.
“Just wanted company to walk to my car.”
We strolled down Flower Street, the long way to the underground parking lot. Any normal
person would have gone through the hotel.
“How do you know Sam?” I asked.
“He introduced me to my ex-wife, which I’m trying to not hold against him.”
“You’re a good sport,” I said. “Have you always been blue?”
He tilted his head a few degrees.
“Dodger fan,” I said. “I would’ve taken you for more of an Angels guy.”
“Ah. Because I have money?”
“Kind of.”
“I like a little grit,” he said, that smile lighting up the night.
“Is that why you met me after work?” I asked, turning toward the parking lot entrance.
“Kind of.”
He let me go first into the underground passage, and I felt his eyes on me as I walked. It was not
an uncomfortable feeling. When we got to the bottom of the ramp, we stopped. I parked in the
employee level and his car was in the valet section. I held up my hand to wave good-bye.
“It was nice to talk to you,” I said.
“You too.”
We faced each other, walking backward in opposite directions.
“See you around,” I said.
“Okay.” He waved, tall and beautiful in the flat light and grey parking lot.
“Take care.”
“What do I have to say?”
“You have to say please,” I said.
“Please.”
“Where do you think you’re taking me?”

“Come on. Text a friend and tell them who you’re with in case I’m a psycho killer.”
***
The early hour guaranteed a traffic-free trip to the west side. I’d gotten into his Mercedes
convertible thinking most killers don’t drive with the top down where everyone could see, so I just let


the wind whip my hair into a bird’s nest. Jonathan drove with one hand, and as I watched his fingers
move and slide on the bottom of the wheel, the hair on the back of it, the strong wrist, I imagined it on
me. I grabbed the leather seat, trying to keep my mind on something, anything else, but the leather
itself seemed to rub the backs of my thighs the wrong way. “So, you pick up waitresses a lot?”
He smirked and glanced over to me. The wind was doing crazy shit to his hair as well, but it
made him look sexy, and I was sure I looked like Medusa. “Only the very attractive ones.”
“I guess I should take that as a compliment.”
“You definitely should.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
“You mentioned that.”
So maybe the rumors were true, and he was a total womanizer. Well, I’d already told him sex
was off the table, so he could womanize all he wanted. Didn’t matter to me at all. I was driven by
curiosity. Who was this guy? What was it like to be him? Not that it mattered, I told myself, because
again, I had no time for a heartbreak.
“What’s your instrument, Monica? You said you were a musician.”
“My voice, mostly,” I said. “But I play everything. I play piano, guitar, violin. I learned to play
the Theremin last year.”
“What is that?”
“Oh, it’s beautiful. You actually don’t touch it to play it. There’s an electrical signal between
two antennae, and you move your hands between them to create a sound. It’s just the most haunting
thing you ever heard.”
“You play it without touching it?”
“Yeah, you just move your hands inside it. Like a dance.”
“This, I have to see.”

When he tipped his head toward me, I thought, oh no. He wants to play it for him. Never gonna
happen. For some reason, the idea of this guy seeing me sing or play made me feel vulnerable, and I
wasn’t in for that at all. “You can watch people play it on YouTube.”
“True. But I want to watch you do it.”
I didn’t know where we were going, so I didn’t know how much of a drive we were in for. I
wanted to get off the subject of me before I told him something that gave him a hold over me. I had to
remember he was my new boss’s friend, and I really liked working at the Stock.
“What do you do besides own hotels and pick up very attractive waitresses?”
“I own lots of things, and they all need attention.”
He pulled the car to the side of the road. We were on the twistiest part of Mulholland, the part
that looked like a desolate park instead of the most expensive real estate in Los Angeles County. A
short guardrail stood between the car and a nearly sheer drop down to the valley and its twinkling
Saturday night lights.
“Let’s go take a look,” he said, pulling the emergency brake.
I got out, thankful for the opportunity to uncross my legs, and slammed the door behind me. I
walked toward the edge overlooking the city. My heels kept hitting little rocky ditches, but I played it
off. They were comfortable, but they weren’t hiking boots. I stood close to the guardrail, leaning
against it with my knees. I felt him behind me, closing his door and jingling his keys. I’d been to
places like that before. There were thousands of them all over the city, which was surrounded by hills


and mountains. Way back when, before I’d sworn off men as a distraction, I’d been up to a similar
place to squirm around the back of Peter Dunbar’s Nissan. And after the prom, I’d come up to drink
too much and make love to Darren behind a tree.
“Do you live up here?” I asked.
“I live in Griffith Park.” He stepped behind me. “Those bright lights are Universal City. To the
right, that black part is the Hollywood reservoir.” I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.
“Toluca Lake is to the left.” He put his hands on my neck, where every nerve ending in my body was
now located, following his touch as he stroked me, like the little magnet shavings under plastic I’d
played with as a kid. When the pen moved, the shavings moved, and I arched my neck to feel more of

him. “The rest,” he said, “is hell on Earth. Not recommended.”
He kissed me at the base of my neck. His lips were full and soft. His tongue traced a line across
my shoulder. I gasped. I had not a single word to say, even when I felt his erection against my back
and his hands moved across my stomach, feeling me through my clothes. God, I hadn’t been touched
like that in so long. When did I decide men were too much trouble? A year and a half since I shed
Kevin like a too-warm coat? I couldn’t even say. Drazen’s lips were more than lips; they were the
physical memory of myself before I shut out sex to pursue music.
I twisted, my lips searching for his, my mouth open for him as his was for me. We met there,
tongues twisting together, his chest to my back, his hands moving up my shirt, teasing my nipples.
I moaned and turned to face him. He pushed me against the car. The hardness between his legs
felt enormous on my thigh. He moved his hand down and pushed my legs open, gripping tight enough
to press my jeans against my skin. He looked down at me, and the intensity of the lust in his eyes was
nearly intimidating, but I was way past sense. Miles. The thought of saying, “No, stop, I need sleep so
I’m fresh for rehearsals tomorrow,” didn’t even occur to me. He pushed his hips between my legs and
kissed me again. I was hungry for him. A white hot ball of heat grew beneath my hips. We kept
kissing and grinding, hands everywhere. I pinched his nipple through his shirt and he gasped, biting
my neck. I hated my clothes. I hated every layer of fabric between myself and his cock. I wanted to
feel skin sweating above mine, his dick rigid and hot, his hands at my breasts. I wanted those hard,
dry thrusts to be real, slick, sliding inside me.
The siren blast split my ears. I almost choked on my own spit. Jonathan looked over at the
police car and the tension in his neck was the last thing I saw before the light got too bright to see
anything. I lowered my legs, and when he got off me, he held his hand out to help me off the hood.
“Good morning,” came a male voice from behind the driver’s side light. The passenger door
opened, and a female cop got out.
“Good morning,” Jonathan and I answered like two kids greeting their third grade teacher. He
wove his fingers in mine. The female cop shone her flashlight in my face. I flinched.
“You okay, miss?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you step away from the gentleman, please? Come toward me.”
I did, hands out so she knew I wasn’t reaching for anything. The cop pulled me out of earshot.

“Do you know this guy?” she asked, shining a little light into my pupils to see if I was on
anything stronger than pheromones.
“Yes.”
“Are you here of your own free will?”


“Yes.”
“That was pretty hot.” She snapped her little light down. “Next time, get a room, okay?”

CHAPTER 5
Things cooled on the way home. I kept my legs crossed and his hand stayed on the gear shifter.
When I told Jonathan the lady cop said we should get a room, he laughed.
“If only she knew who she was talking about,” he said. After a few seconds, he stopped at a
light and turned to me. “So, what’s up with you saying you’re not sleeping with me, then pushing up
against my dick on the hood of my car?”
I was a little annoyed with the question, because he brought me there and he started kissing my
neck, but I also couldn’t pretend I wasn’t just as responsible for the raw heat of the scene.
“I just…” I had to pause and think. The light changed, and when he turned his head back to the
road, I felt like I could talk. “I have things I’m doing. I can’t be up all night fucking because my voice
gets messed up. I can’t think about a man, any man, nothing personal, when I should be writing songs.
Carving out enough nights for song writing, between gigs and working, is hard enough without making
time for a boyfriend. So, I mean, I had to give up something in life, and it’s men.”
He nodded and thought about it. He rubbed his chin, which had a little bit of stubble. My neck
remembered it very fondly. “I get it.”
“So, I’m sorry I led you on. That was careless.”
His laugh was loud and inappropriate, considering what I’d just said, but he didn’t seem
embarrassed.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“You’re taking all my best lines.”
“Didn’t mean to steal your thunder.”

“No problem. I enjoyed hearing it.”
I leaned back and watched the scenery change from the twisted forestation of Mulholland to the
expanse of the 101. How did I end up in this car, at four in the morning, with a known womanizer?
Yes, he was gorgeous and warm and knew all the right places and ways to touch me, but really? How
stupid would I be? How many women had fallen for this crap, and I was going to be another one in
line?
The wind made it hard to talk until he pulled off downtown. “What’s with you and sleeping
around?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“All the women. You have a reputation.”
“Do I?” He smirked, not looking at me as he drove. “And that didn’t chase you away?”
“I trust myself. I trust my instincts and my resolve. You just make me curious is all.”
He shrugged. “What do you think your reputation is?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Of course you do. Everyone does. When people talk about Monica, what do they say, besides
that she’s beautiful?”
I let the compliment slide. Coming from someone who had almost made his way into my pants,
it didn’t mean much. “I guess they say I’m ambitious. I hope they say I’m talented. My friend Darren


would say I’m cold.”
“Did he try to get you into bed, too?”
“Shut up.” He glanced at me and we smiled at each other. “I was with him for six and a half
years, so it’s not like he had to try for a long time.”
“Was it a hard breakup?” He stopped at a light and turned his gaze to me, ready to offer me
sympathy or words of wisdom.
“No. It was the easiest thing we ever did.” I couldn’t discern what he was thinking from the
way he looked at me, but he got serious, draining his tone of all flirtation.
“Easy for you?”
“Both. It was dying for a long time.”

He looked out his window, rubbing his lips with two fingertips.
“You want to say something you’re not saying,” I said. “I don’t want to be your girlfriend, so
being honest isn’t going to come back and bite you on the ass.”
the Stock, and my car, were a block away. He pulled up to the curb. He put the Mercedes in
park but didn’t turn the key.
“You really want to know?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you make me curious.”
He smirked. “My wife and I were married that long. It’s wasn’t easy.” He rubbed the steering
wheel, and I realized he regretted answering even the first part of the question. It was too late for me
to give up on him now, so I waited until he said, “She left and took everything with her.”
“I don’t understand. Are you broke?”
He put the car into drive and turned to me. “She didn’t take a dime. She took everything that
mattered.”
I felt sorry and then I felt stupid for feeling any kind of sympathy. I wanted to hold his hand and
tell him he’d get over it someday, but nothing could have been less appropriate.
“I’m kinda hungry,” I said. “There’s this food truck thing on First and Olive. In a parking lot?
You can come if you want.”
“It’s four in the morning.”
“Don’t come. Your call.”
“You’re a tough customer. Anyone ever tell you that?”
I shrugged. I really was hungry, and nothing sounded better than a little Kogi kimchi right then.
***
Jonathan was right in mentioning the time. Four in the morning was pretty late, as evidenced by
the fact that he found a place for the car half a block away. We walked into the lot, against the traffic
of twenty and thirty something partiers as they filtered out, one third more sober than they had been
when they got there, carrying food folded in wax-paper or swishing around eco-friendly containers.
The lot was smallish, being in the middle of downtown and not in front of a Costco. The only parked
vehicles lined the chain link fence, brightly painted trucks spewing luscious smells from all over the

globe. My Kogi truck was there, as well as a gourmet popcorn truck, artisanal grilled cheese, lobster


poppers, ice cream, sushi, and Mongolian barbecue. The night’s litter dotted the asphalt, hard white
from the brash floodlights brought by the truck owners. The truck stops were informal and gathered by
tweet and rumor. Each truck brought their own tables and chairs, garbage pail, and lights. The
customers came between midnight and whenever.
I scanned the lot for someone I knew, hoping I’d find someone to say hello to on one hand and
wishing Jonathan and I could stay alone on the other.
“My Kogi truck is over there,” I said.
“I’m going to Korea next week. The last think I need is to fill up on Kogi. Have you had the
Tipo’s Tacos?”
“Tacos? Really?
“Come on.” He took my hand and pulled me over to the taco truck. “You’re not a vegetarian or
anything?”
“No.”
“Hola,” he said to the guy in the window, who looked to be about my age or younger with a
wide smile and little moustache. “Che tal?” he continued. That was about the extent of my Spanish,
but not Jonathan’s. He started rattling off stuff, asking questions, and if the laughter between him and
the guy with the little moustache was any indication, joking fluidly. If I’d closed my eyes, I’d have
thought he was a different person.
“You speak Spanish?” I asked.
“You don’t?” Little Moustache asked.
“No.”
He said something to Jonathan, and there was more conversation, which made me feel left out.
They were obviously talking about me.
“He wants to know if you’re as smart as you are beautiful,” Jonathan said.
“What did you tell him?”
“Prospects are good, but I need time to get to know you better.”
“Anywhere in that conversation, did you order me a pastor?”

“Just one?”
“Yes. Just one.”
“They’re small.” He made a circle with his hands, smiling like an old grandma talking to her
granddaughter about being too damn skinny.
I pinched his side, and there wasn’t much to grab. It was hard and tight. “One,” I said, trying to
forget that I’d touched him.
We sat at a long table. A few trucks were breaking down for the night. There was a feeling of
quiet and finality, the feeling he and I had outlasted the late nighters and deep partiers. I finished my
taco in three bites and turned around, putting my back to the table and stretching my legs.
He took a swig of his water and touched my bicep with his thumb. “No tattoos?”
“No. Why?”
“I don’t know. Mid-twenties. Musician. Lives in Echo Park. You need tattoos and piercings to
get into that club.”
I shook my head. “I went a few times, but couldn’t commit to anything. My best friend Gabby
has a few. I went with her once, and I couldn’t decide what to get. And anyway, it would have been
awkward.”


“Why?” He was working on his last taco, so I guess I felt like I should do the talking until he
finished.
“She was getting something important. On the inside of her wrist, she got the words Never
Again on the scars she made when she cut herself. I couldn’t diminish it by getting some stupid thing
on me.”
He ate his last bite and balled up his napkin. “What happened that made her try to commit
suicide?”
“We have no idea. She doesn’t even know. Just life.” I wanted to tell him I’d found her, and
been with her in the hospital, and that I took care of her, but I thought I’d gotten heavy enough. “I have
a piercing though,” I said. “Wanna see?”
“I can see your ears from here.”
I lifted my shirt to show him my navel ring with its little fake diamond. “Yes, it hurt.”

“Ah,” he said. “Lovely.”
He touched it, then spread his fingers over my stomach. His pinkie grazed the top of my
waistband, and I took in a deep gasp. He put a little pressure toward him on my waist, and I followed
it, kissing him deeply. His stubble scratched my lips and his tongue tasted of the water he’d just
drunk. I put my hands on his cheeks, weaving my fingers in his hair.
It was sweet, and doomed, and pointless, but it was late, and he was handsome and funny. I may
not have been interested in having a boyfriend, but I wasn’t made of stone.
When Little Moustache had to break down the table, we had to admit it was time to go. The sky
had gone from navy to cyan, and the air warmed with the appearance of the first arc of the sun.
We got to his car before he had to feed the meter. We didn’t say anything as he pulled into the
parking lot at the Stock and went down two stories to my lonely Honda, sitting in the employee
section. I opened the door with a clack that echoed in the empty underground lot.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll probably see you at the hotel sometime.”
“We can pretend this never happened.”
“Up to you.” He touched my cheek with his fingertips, and I felt like an electrical cable to my
nervous system went live. “I wouldn’t mind finishing the job.”
“Let’s not promise each other anything.”
“All right. No promises,” he said.
“No lies,” I replied.
“See you around.”
We parted without a good-bye kiss.
***
Gabby and I lived in the house I grew up in, which was on the second steepest hill in Los
Angeles. When my parents moved, they let me live in the house for rent that equaled the property
taxes plus utilities. I was sure I’d never need to move. I had two bedrooms and a little yard. The
house had been a worthless piece of crap in a bad neighborhood when they bought it in the 1980s.
Now it had a cardiologist to the west of it and a converted Montessori school that cost $1,800 a
month to the east.
The night Jonathan Drazen took me up to Mulholland Drive, I returned to find Darren sleeping

on my couch. We had agreed to not leave Gabby alone until we knew she was okay, and she’d gotten
no better after a week on her meds. The first blue light of morning came through the drapes, so I could
see well enough to step around the pizza box he’d left on the floor and get into the bathroom.
I looked at myself in the mirror. The convertible had wreaked havoc with my hair and my
makeup was gone, probably all over Jonathan Drazen’s face.
I still felt his touch: his lips on my neck, his hands feeling my breasts through my shirt. My
fingers traced where his had been, and my snatch felt like an overripe fruit. I stuck my hand in my
jeans, one knee on the toilet bowl, and came so fast and hard under the ugly fluorescent lights that my
back arched and I moaned at my own touch. It was a waste of time. I wanted him as much after I came
as I did before.
My God, I thought, how did I do this to myself? What have I become?
I needed to never see him again. I didn’t need his lips or his firm hands. If I needed to take care
of my body’s needs, I could find a man easily enough. I didn’t need one so pissed at his ex-wife he’d
make me fall in love with him before apologizing for leading me on. He wanted to hurt women, and
nothing froze my creative juices like heartache. No, I decided as I went back out to the kitchen,
anyone but Jonathan.
Darren was already making coffee.
“Where were you?” he asked. “It’s six thirty already.”
“Driving all over the west side with I-won’t-say.”
“Mister Gorgeous?” He said it without jealousy or teasing.
“Yep.”
“He’s nice to you?”
“He wants to sleep with me, so it’s hard to say if he’s being nice or being manipulative,” I said.
“How’s Gabby?”
“Same.” He got out two cups and a near-dead carton of half-and-half. “She’s volatile, then
deadened. She started shaking because she wasn’t playing last night. Missed opportunity and all that.
Then she rocked back and forth for half an hour.”
“Did you sit her at the piano?”
“Yeah, that worked. We need something to happen for her.”

“She’ll still be who she is,” I said. “She could play the Staples Center, and she’d be this way.”
“But she could afford to get care, the right meds, maybe therapy. Something.” I nodded. He was
right. They were stymied by poverty. “And Vinny? I haven’t heard a damn thing from that guy. I tried
calling him and his mailbox is full.” He was losing his shit, standing there with a coffee cup in his
hand.
“We have six more months on our contract with him and we’re out,” I said.
“She doesn’t have six months, Mon.”
“Okay, I get it.” I held him by the biceps and looked him in the face.
“She’s like she was the last time, when you found her. I don’t want—“
“Darren! Stop!”
But it was too late. The stress of the evening had gotten to him. He blinked hard and tears
dripped down his cheeks. I put my arms around him, and we held each other in the middle of the
kitchen until the coffee maker beeped. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, still holding the empty cup.
“I’m working the music store this morning. Will you stay with her until rehearsal?”


“Yeah.”
“Can I shower here? My water heater’s busted.”
“Knock yourself out. Just hang the towel.”
He strode out of the kitchen, and I was left there with our dripping sink and filthy floor. The
roof leaked, and the foundation was cracked from the last earthquake swarm. It had been nice to sit in
that Mercedes and drive around with someone who never spent a minute agonizing about money. It
had been nice to not worry about anything but physical pleasure and what to do with it for a couple of
hours. Real nice.
Darren’s laptop was on the kitchen table, set to some Protunes thing he probably hadn’t gotten a
chance to touch in the middle of taking care of Gabby. I fixed my coffee and slid into the chair,
opening the internet browser. We stole bandwidth from the Montessori school during off hours, so I
checked my email. I remembered my conversation with Jonathan about his ex-wife, so I did a search
for her: Jessica Carnes.
I got a different set of pictures than Darren had shown us the other day. Jessica was an abstract

and conceptual artist. Searching under Google Images brought back a treasury of pictures of the artist
and her art, which despite Kevin schooling me in the vocabulary of the visual arts, I didn’t get at all.
Jessica had long blond hair and an Ivory Girl complexion. She might have worn a stitch of
makeup and maybe used hot rollers. She wore nice flats, but flats nonetheless. Her skirts were long
and her demeanor was modest. She was my exact opposite. I had long brown hair and black eyes. I
wore makeup, tight jeans, short skirts, and the highest heels I could manage. And black. I wore a lot of
black, a color I hadn’t given a thought to until I saw Jessica in every cream, ecru, and pastel on the
palette.
On page three, I came across a wedding photo. I clicked through.
The page had been built by her agent, and it showed a beachside extravaganza the likes of
which I could only aspire to waitress. I scrolled down, looking for his face. I found him here and
there with people I didn’t know or side-by-side with his bride. A picture at the bottom stopped me. I
sighed as if the air had been forced out of my lungs by an outside force. Jessica and Jonathan stood
together, separated from the crowds. Her back was three-quarters to the camera, and he faced her. He
was speaking, his eyes joyous, happy, his face an open book about love. He looked like a different
man with his fingertips resting on Jessica’s collarbone. I knew exactly how that touch felt, and I
envied that collarbone enough to snap the laptop closed.

CHAPTER 6.
I tapped my foot. Studio time was bought by the hour and not cheap, yet Gabby and I were the
only ones there. She was at the piano, of course, running her fingers over the keys with her usual
brilliance, but it was only therapy, not real practice. Darren’s drums took twenty minutes to set up.
The chitchat and apologies would take another fifteen minutes, and I still had to practice some dumb
standards for the solo gig at Frontage that night.
I sat on a wooden bench facing the glass separating the studio from the control room. The room
stank of cigarettes and human funk. The soundproofing on the walls and ceiling was foam, porous by
necessity, and thus holding cells for germs and odor. Though I thought I’d rubbed away the ache
Jonathan had caused, I woke up with it, and good scrub and an arched back in the shower did nothing

to dispel the feel of him. I needed to get to work. Letting this guy under my skin was
counterproductive already.
I whispered, “I’ve got you, under my skin.” Then I sang, I’ve got you, deep in the heart of me.
So deep in my heart, that you’re really a part of me.
No. But yes. It was a good song. It was missing how I really felt: frustrated and angry. So I
belted out the last line of the chorus, I’ve got you, under my skin, without Sinatra’s little snappy
croon, but a longing, accusatory howl.
“Hang on,” Gabby said. She took a second to find the melody, and I sang the chorus the way I
wanted it played.
“Wow, that’s not how Sinatra did it,” she said.
“Play it loungey, like we’re seducing someone.” I tapped her a slower rhythm, and she caught
onto it. “Right, Gabs. That’s it.”
I stood up and took the rest of the song, owning it, singing as if the intrusion was unacceptable,
as if insects crawled inside me, because I didn’t want anyone under my skin. I wanted to be left alone
to do my work.
Having the guys here to record it so I could hear it would have been nice, but I could tell I was
onto something. The back room at Frontage was small, so I needed less rage and more discomfort.
More sadness. More disappointment in myself for letting it happen, and begging the pain away. If I
could nail that, I might actually enjoy singing a few standards at a restaurant. Or I might get fired for
changing them. No way to know.
I did it again, from the top. The first time I sang the word, “skin,” I felt Jonathan’s hands on me
and didn’t resist the pleasure and warmth. I sang right through it, and when Gabby accompanied, she
put her own sadness into it. I felt it. It was my song now.
My phone rang: Darren.
“Where the hell are you?”
“Harry just called me. His mother is sick in Arizona. He’s out. For good.”
I would have said something like, so no bassist, no band, but Gabby would have heard, and she
wasn’t ready for any kind of upset.
“And you’re not here because?”
He sighed. “I got held up at work. I’ll be there in twenty. Tomorrow night, I have a favor to

ask.”
“Yeah?”
“I have a date. Can you get her home after your gig and make sure she takes her meds?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks, Mon.”
“Go get laid.”
I clicked the phone off and used the rest of the time to work on our performance.
***
Thursday afternoon shift at the Stock was slow by Saturday night standards. I earned less
money, but the atmosphere was more relaxed. There was always a minute to chill with Debbie at the
service bar. I liked her more and more all the time. I tried to keep it light and hold my energy up. Just


because this gig tonight wasn’t my own songwriting, I still wanted to do a good job. But after
Darren’s call and the sputtering dissolution of the band, I lost the mojo, and I just sounded like Sinatra
on barbiturates. I had no idea how to get that heat back.
Debbie got off her phone as I slid table ten’s ticket across the bar. Robert snapped it up and
poured my rounds.
“I think he likes you,” Debbie said, indicating Robert. He was hot in his black T-shirt and
Celtic tattoos.
“Not my type.”
“What is your type?”
I shrugged. “Nonexistent.”
“Okay, well, finish with this table and go on your break. Could you go down to Sam’s office
and make a copy of next week’s schedule?” She handed me a slip of paper with the calendar. The
waitstaff hung around waiting for it every week as our station placement and hours determined not
only how much money we’d make over the next seven days, but our social and family plans as well.
And here she was giving it to me two hours early. She smiled and patted my arm before walking off to
greet three men in suits.
I went to the bathroom and freshened up, then headed for Sam’s office.

It wasn’t a warm, fabulously decorated place like Jonathan’s at K. It was totally utilitarian,
with a linoleum floor and metal filing cabinets. The copy machine was in there, and I put the schedule
on the glass without turning the lights on. The windows gave enough afternoon light.
The energy saver was on, meaning the copier was ice cold. I tapped start and waited. Lord
knew how long it would take. I stretched my neck and hummed, then whispered, I’ve got you, under
my skin. I’ve got you, deep in the heart of me. So deep in my heart—
I gasped when I smelled his dry scent. When I turned, Jonathan stood in the doorway with his
arms crossed. That was the first time I’d seen him in daylight, and the sunlight made him look more
human, more substantial, more present, and more gorgeous, if that was even possible.
“Jonathan.”
“Hi.”
I realized the deal with the schedule copying just then. “Debbie sent me up here.”
“You didn’t know she was a yenta?”
“You’re very persistent.”
“I just kept telling myself I didn’t want you, but we said no lies, and I think that includes lying
to myself. How about you?”
I didn’t know what to say. I had shut out thoughts of him for almost a week. I thought about
baseball, chord progressions, and getting a new manager whenever he came into my mind. So having
him in front of me was like opening a closet door and having all the stuff come tumbling out.
I took a step forward, and he did, too. We were in each other’s arms in a second, mouths
attached, tongues twisting. He reached back and closed the door.
Okay, I was going to get this over with now. Me and him. Right there. Just get it done so I could
move on. He thrust me onto the desk and I opened my legs, wrapping them around his waist. He was
pushing against me again, like on the hood of the Mercedes, a million years ago.
He put his hands up my shirt, across my stomach and to my breasts.
“Yes?” he gasped.